Page 18 of The Scholar’s Spy

“Well, thank you, madam.” Robert harnessed as much charm as he could, smiling in a winning manner, hoping to negate the negative impression Miss Fossey had of him. “Miss Abigail has been the most gracious of guides to Lyme. Her kindness toward me—”

“I am pleased my sister has been so kind.” Her emphasis on the final word did not sound especially convincing, and her smile was stiff. “But perhaps it would be wise to part now, and see more of the assembly. I believe Miss Guthrie would enjoy your company, sister, and one of the Miss Costigans would presumably like a dance or perhaps a glass of lemonade with Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“Of course, Miss Fossey—” Robert said. He turned toward Abigail, all smart manners, bowing to her as if they had not been caught and scolded. “Thank you again for the dance and your company. It was a pleasure.”

Moving away, Robert felt a pang of reproach, of annoyance, of a fresh emotion he could not entirely explain. It was only when Abigail caught up with him, her hand briefly touching his elbow, and pulling him back to look at her. There was a sensation of gratefulness that she had not let him go straightaway.

“I will see you tomorrow morning, if we are to continue our search.”

“Of course,” Robert said. He was more than willing, and if he was honest, it was not down to the hint of Abigail’s danger, but as much to do with that womanly blush she’d shown just moments ago.

“Excellent.” She was still hesitating, her hand close to his arm, and he could sense her uncertainty as if she wished to say more. To question or dig deeper into his motivations, or what he wished from her—was its nervousness on her part of something else entirely. It made him feel extremely masculine, and as he dwelt on what he might say next—and then Abigail spoke first.

“I have something most particular to ask you.”

It could easily have been a hint that a gentleman might say to his lady love. An inclination that he intended to propose. Yet it was said by Abigail, and she lifted her chin, drawing strength from ignoring the conventions that swirled around them in the ballroom.

Surprise dashed through him, her confidence danced behind her grey eyes as she raked her gaze over him, and the earlier rush to his own ego flipped, making Robert question whether it was Abigail or he who was the experienced one. It was meant to be he who was in charge, who held the power, and yet as he looked back at her, gazing down into her face, Robert was far less certain than he could ever remember being.

“Then I look forward to our conversation.”

At least that was entirely true, Robert thought as he made his goodbyes to her.

Chapter Seven

Dawn broke as Abigail slipped from the house. She had in part listened to her sister last night, acknowledged the scolding but not the warning. It didn’t matter what society might think of her. After all, it already relegated her to the role of the town’s strange spinster, she might as well do as she pleased.

Abigail strode on through the cottages, houses, seeing only the occasional servant this early in the morning. The crystalized coolness of the early morning was best enjoyed alone.

She was preoccupied by the hope of seeing Mr. O’Sullivan, as they had much to discuss. Primarily, she had her rather shocking request to make of him. Her stomach turned over at the thought, a blend of nerves and excitement, a sensation Abigail normally associated solely with the discovery of a particularly rare specimen but was beginning to connect the rush of feeling with Mr. O’Sullivan as well.

On reaching the edge of the promenade, Abigail made her way down onto the beach, her footfalls quick over the pebbles until she stood in front of the lapping waves. In haste, she discarded her boots and stockings on the shale and stepped forward into the water.

Of course, later she would begin her search through the Blue Lias, mud peat, and rocks for her fossils, but right now she might simply enjoy the pleasure of dipping her toes into the rolling waves without an audience.

The chill of the sea lapped over her feet sending awareness up through her body, and Abigail let out a sigh. It had become a ritual for her following any especially unpleasant social interaction to come and let the sea soak her feet and pull away her worries—yanking away the thoughts of the Miss Costigans and their ilk, Judith’s worries, the dismissive stare of Mr. Suchet—casting these negatives aside and letting only the memory of Robert remain.

“Ahoy there,” someone cut into the calm with a lilting voice. Abigail turned around to see the very man she had spent most of the night dreaming of.

He was fast about approaching her.

Mr. O’Sullivan appeared fresh faced and jovial, his somber garb from last night discarded in favor of a buff pair of breeches and a loose white shirt. In one arm, he carried his navy jacket. Abigail noted how well it all became him—as if appearing pleasing, his skin warmed by the sun, his blue gaze sharpened by the colors he picked to wear—were just a happy accident for him to look as handsome as he did. Whereas it took her hours to appear lovely, and her efforts were normally put to better uses.

“Hello.” She stepped back from the sea, dropping her long pantaloon folds to better hide her bare ankles.

“I thought our meeting was not for several hours,” he remarked as Abigail wondered how best to re-dress. This was precisely the sort of situation her sister had been railing against last night, but such warnings did little good now—the stockings and shoes would need to be put back on regardless. With this in mind, Abigail bent down and scooped up all the items and marched away from the water’s edge.

“You’re early,” she said, sitting down and placing one bare foot on her knee, so that she pulled on her stockings. She worked with speed as it seemed unnecessary to prolong an interaction, but when she glanced up, it was to see Mr. O’Sullivan look rather pink-cheeked despite the relative coolness of the day. With as much dexterity as she could manage, she tied up the laces of her boots.

“I hope it was not wrong of me to come over, I can of course depart—” He sounded remarkably flustered. Abigail feared he might somehow have overheard Judith’s tirade from last night, which was utter nonsense since it had chiefly been delivered on their walk home and then in the comfort of their own home. Discretion, proper manners, and social niceties had all been words Judith muttered. The gist of the bombardment had been to stay away from Mr. O’Sullivan, which Abigail had no intention of doing.

“No, of course not. I am always happy to see you,” Abigail said. “Will you help me up?”

Mr. Sullivan shot out his hand and Abigail snatched hold of it, together pulling her onto her feet.

“I enjoyed last night,” he said as he released her hand. Abigail glanced quickly toward the promenade to see if their interaction might have been spotted. Thankfully they were alone.

“I am not certain I believe you.”